A Dragon's whisper
by Hatmaker
Summary: The Dragonborn, while working out how to deal with her new responsibilities and enemies, hires a mercenary to travel with her. Loosely follows the main questlines (civil war, dragonborn) combined with content from Heartfire, Dawnguard and Frostfall. My first ever fanfic, please criticize and comment :) Rated M to be on the safe side, might change that later on. OC/Stenvar.
1. Candlehearth Hall

**Chapter 1 – Mercenary**

Borka paused at the top of the stairs, scanning the room for a vacant seat, preferably as close to the hearth as possible. The blizzard outside had left her feeling cold through to the marrow of her bones, and she figured she deserved some comfort before retiring for the night. The usual patrons of Candlehearth Hall seemed more at ease than they had when she first visited, and she took credit for some of that, having recently relieved the town of a serial killer.  
She hadn't planned on staying in Windhelm long, her reasons for visiting chance more than anything else, and after chasing down the Butcher she was eager to leave the cold gloom of Ulfric's city behind.  
Though she held little love for Windhelm she knew better than to leave without a plan for where to go next, and as she was forced to spend a night's rest before setting out she turned her attention towards her options, carefully weighing the pro's and con's.  
Seeking out the Greybeards in response to their summons, she had left Whiterun some time ago. An encounter with some cultists as she returned to Ivarstead had spurred her to travel north, but although she had found possible passage to Solstheim she was hesitant about leaving Skyrim just yet.  
Then there was the College, which might prove useful in regards to honing her new-found affinity for magic.  
She thought briefly of simply returning to Breezehome, her house in Whiterun, pretending she could stay there in it's comfort and ignore the world outside the walls. Yet she knew well enough that this was not an option. There were simply too many dangers, and most of them seemed to be drawn towards her, or rather; towards the dragonborn.

Grimacing, still not too certain how she felt about being Dhovakiin, she looked up as Viola Giordano passed her, trying to catch up with her favourite captain. Borka smiled a little at the sight as Lonelygale abruptly left his discussion with Brunwulf, fleeing the scene. Catching Brunwulf's eye she offered a conspiratorial wink of amusement, but did not walk over to resume their in-depth discussion on politics. She was no fan of Ulfric personally, but she might consider him a better option than the Empire. At least the Stormcloaks took the fight to the Aldmeri Dominion, which was something the current Empire seemed incapable of.  
While she enjoyed her discussions with Brunwulf, and though she understood and sympathized with him in regards to the Nord's lacking compassion on behalf of the other races as a flaw, she also appreciated how the rebels had irrevocably rocked the white gold concordat in Skyrim. That, at least, served to encourage her that all the bloodshed might not be for nothing in the end.  
Brunwulf's attention darted briefly from her to something behind her shoulder just before he was interrupted by Viola, and Borka turned around, finding herself silently studied by a man she did not know.  
He was somewhere in his forties, wearing sturdy plate armour, his head shaved bold and his features hardened by the same unforgiving life that made most nords seem overly reclusive and distrustful.  
A shield and a woodcutter's axe rested against one leg, his sword discreetly set aside while still remaining within reach. Mercenary or thug for hire.  
Capable, by the looks of it.  
Despite herself Borka turned towards him, slinking into the empty chair drawn up by his table.  
He acknowledged her with a short nod, not bothering with ceasing his assessment of her, nor seemingly concerned with being scrutinized in return.  
One corner of his mouth curled upwards in a mock smile, but his tone was professional enough. "Looking for a good swordarm? 500 gold, up front." He offered, meeting her eye in a manner that dis-encouraged any haggling.  
"Any other conditions?" Borka replied, and this time his lips stretched into a full smile, surprising her with what looked like genuine humor, a quality not often found in Skyrim.  
"No necromancy. No joining the war."  
She found herself returning the smile. "I think I can work with that." She agreed, leaning back in her chair a little. "I'll pay fifty tonight. Give me until tomorrow morning to arrange my business and collect the rest of your gold. Meet me here, then we'll leave as soon as possible."  
He considered her offer with a brief shrug, then offered a handshake. "You got yourself a deal. Name's Stenvar."  
"Borka." She returned the handshake and handed him a small coin purse, careful not to alert anyone to the fact that her backpack was concealing several other valuables as well.  
Stenvar accepted it, leisurely counting up the septims, and nodded his approval. "Be seeing you, then."

As she got up to return to the room she had rented for the night Borka briefly considered backing out. She was used to travel alone, lightly and stealthily. Perhaps a mercenary would only slow her down. Perhaps he was no better than a bandit, hoping to rob her as soon as they were out of sight from the city.  
With a frown she revisited her decision once more; wherever she was going she was bound to run into far more danger than before, the past few weeks left little doubt of that. She needed an extra sword, and this man seemed a better option than most of the others she had run into. They were either too self-absorbed or overly righteous or inexperienced. She also disliked the idea of dragging one of her housecarls along with her, preferring Lydia to take care of Breezehome and Rayya to look after her newly acquired house in Falkreath.  
Both women were capable warriors, but they were also assigned to her by the jarls, and as such Borka expected them to fulfill their duties, but little else on her behalf. It wasn't that she disapproved of them, in fact she quite liked them, but she didn't feel that odd sort of chemistry that made a good comrade in arms during long travels. Better then, to hire a professional sell-sword.  
This Stenvar fellow was at least walking willingly into a mercenary arrangement. That, and he seemed somewhat lenient when it came down to... Well... Stretching the laws a bit.  
With this settled she quickly turned to more pressing concerns. She needed money, and she needed experience with these new types of encounters.  
Having survived on her own in the wilds had made her a capable wayfarer and decent enough with her crossbow, but she felt unprepared for her new life as Dragonborn. She was inexperienced with magic, and unused to handle assassins or cultists rather than the occasional bandit. The vampires she didn't even want to think about.  
In addition to this her new stature as thane was expensive compared to living off the woods. Breezehome was a necessity; with her new life she had needed a safe refuge, but it was costly to keep the house maintained. With the acquisition of the deeds to Lakeview she had built a small house, planning to expand it into a homestead that might in time provide income, but so far it had cost her most of her savings, not likely to provide any coin in return for at least several months.  
It didn't exactly help matters that she had adopted Lucia and Sophie, offering the two girls a home if not much else. They didn't ask for much, and they tried helping in their own way, picking flowers and harvesting vegetables, but she felt obligated to provide at least a safe home with regular meals and the occasional change of clothes.  
With all of this weighing on her she couldn't leave for Solstheim. Not now. That settled, Borka found she had a plan after all.

Stenvar watched his new employer as she retreated downstairs, once more trying to figure out exactly who and what she was.  
Most newcomers in Windhelm were either fugitives or Stormcloak volunteers, but she didn't fit. He had spotted her talking with Brunwulf, and from the scraps of conversation she was not too fond of Ulfric, but even less of the Empire. The Thalmor or Aldmeri Dominion he would wager she'd cut down without blinking should she be provided with the chance to do so.  
Then there was the efficiency with which she had exposed Calixto as the butcher, even disposed of him without suffering much harm. Granted, Calixto Corrium might not have been the most impressive of foes, but generally speaking a man with several killings on his hands was never to be trifled with.  
She had caught Stenvar's attention the way only a possible contractor could, and while he was feeling a bit apprehensive as to her mystery he was equally eager to get out of Windhelm. It had been too long since anyone had offered to hire him for anything but banditry, and not only was he bored, but also low on funds.  
Hopefully there would turn up a chance or two at making a little on the sides during this contract. He could certainly use the extra money, and his gear had seen better days.  
He hoped this woman would prove a change in his luck. If nothing else she was bound to be a change from the status quo.

The next morning offered no change in weather, and Borka sighed at the freezing snow that whirled underneath the main door, carrying with it an unwelcome draft and a reminder that it was another harsh and unpleasant trek awaiting her outside. Shifting her backpack she climbed the stairs, scanning for Stenvar.  
He was already waiting for her by his usual table, surprising her immensely by offering her a steaming cup of tea as she sat down with him. She certainly hadn't figured him the thoughtful kind of man.  
"So. Mind telling me where we are going?" He asked as she sniffed the contents of her mug, not finding traces of any known poison or ingredient besides a few healing herbs.  
"I am headed towards Winterhold." She replied, testily sipping her drink. It was better than expected, clearly he knew how to brew his tea. "From there I plan on exploring the coast for a few days, maybe even join a few classes at the college. After that... Well." She hesitated. "500 will cover a month. If you and I are both in agreement to keep working together after that I propose we renegotiate a new contract."  
Stenvar cocked his head, as if listening to something just behind her words. She briefly wondered how much he could guess of her true motives, but he smiled that surprisingly forthcoming smile of his and raised his mug to a toast. "Might even find a few ruins or wrecks worth exploring along the way." He murmured. "Eat up, while I settle my tab." Getting to his feat he added an imperative "Let's get going!" But while his voice was gruff his tone was almost ringing with a traveller's excitement.  
Chewing down her slice of goat cheese and a piece of bread Borka followed shortly after.

They travelled by carriage to Winterhold, opting to spare both their horses and themselves for as long as they could. Spending the time preparing and planning they used the few khajiit trading caravans they passed along the way to exchange what they didn't need, supply what they lacked and upgrade what needed upgrading.  
After some discussion they decided to bring two tents, carrying one each and being able to bring both a fur and a leather tent with them. This required them to sell off some heavy armour, overall opting for lighter gear, but added the benefit of being prepared for almost any weather, which could be just as deadly as a lack of armour.  
"You'll dull your axe chopping firewood." Stenvar warned when Borka sold off her axe, choosing to use her steel war axe for both survival and combat, but she rolled a shoulder in reply. "Mostly use my crossbow anyway. Besides, we'll hopefully carry with us enough after all of this to enable me to get a brand new one if need be."  
The suggestion of possible income or treasure seemed to encourage him, and he smothered a small smile as she added a few building materials.  
Building a cart rather than hauling it with them from the start was an option they had discussed earlier. "Of course, with luck we'll find one in working condition, but with a few nails and fittings we could fix one up, or even build one if needed." Stenvar had suggested as they went through their map, marking down spots of interest from rumours and scraps of legend.  
Borka was surprised to learn that Stenvar seemingly enjoyed cooking, preparing the meals as they travelled while she would make camp and Alfarinn, the carriage driver tended the horses. They shared the hunting between them, gathering praise from Alfarinn, who seemed to relish the steady supply of fresh meat.

The journey to Winterhold offered fewer dangers than Stenvar had expected, and he soon found himself spending his time at the inn, impatiently waiting for Borka's return. She had enrolled as a student at the college upon the first days of arrival, leaving him to entertain himself for the next week or so while she got things settled. The nature of her magic had never been a topic between them, mostly because she didn't use it, but as he spent the next few days idly strolling what was left of the once proud city Stenvar found himself increasingly curious.  
His no-necromancy rule aside he had nothing against mages in general, but he was not too fond of them either.  
It was rare for nords to show any skill with magic, but then again Borka might have bosmer blood as well; she had mentioned staying in both Cyrodiil and Hammerfell, without elaborating much on her background.  
To his own surprise he found himself looking forward to seeing her again, for reasons that were not entirely financial. She was an interesting character, well read and skilled in survival during circumstances that would be trying even to harder men than himself.  
It occurred to him that he knew very little about her; less than he would have made it his business to know any other employer, and he wondered why hadn't demanded more information from her during their journey so far.  
That it didn't seem gentlemanly really shouldn't be a concern at all. Yet there it was. He was unknowingly treating her more like a potential relation than an employer, catering to his subconscious awareness of the fact that she was a pleasant, even impressive, female.  
This was not only a ridiculous notion; she was a decade younger or so, but also highly unprofessional and risky. It annoyed him, as soon as he realized how he had duped himself, that he had allowed himself to err in keeping up with his own standards.  
When Borka returned he would have to catch up on some much needed information. You didn't survive long as a mercenary by forgetting caution, and he didn't plan on retiring permanently just yet.

Leaving the college behind, Borka found she was looking forward to seeing Stenvar. Her fellow students had turned out to be ill suited for conversation on any topic but the arcane, and the Thalmor Ancano made her skin crawl. She found it hard to rest just knowing he was staying within the same walls and was stunned to find that she frequently wished Stenvar was there to keep her company, or just loom behind her shoulder. He was good at looming; not overly aggressive, just... Passively dangerous.  
Good to have around when facing down someone like Ancano.  
It wasn't that she hadn't killed her fair share of Thalmor agents, in fact she happily thinned their ranks if given the chance, but going after a guest of the archmage while staying at the college seemed overly brazen. Perhaps she would receive a chance later on. For now she was quite content with going on an adventure and leaving the college behind for a while.  
The jarl had tasked her with retrieving a helm for him, for reasons she expected to be solely based on the fact that she was equal measures expendable and armed, but the gold was decent enough and Stenvar hadn't protested. Then there was the mysterious claw said to be related to Yngol's barrow. Her companion definitely hadn't protested when she picked up on that lead. Coupled with an assorted selection of ruins and lairs to investigate the trek ought to be worthwhile.  
Undressing her college robes and donning her usual travel gear felt strangely satisfying. It irked Borka more than she liked to admit even to herself how the robes made her "merely a novice", reducing her experience in other fields to something that could be ignored. During weaker moments she had contemplated dressing up in the robes she had looted from her enemies, mages and Thalmor alike, but quickly discarded the idea.  
Her cloak was made of expensive, sleek grey fur, and her armour lined and fashioned with a master's eye for detail. She knew she stood out, but as thane she also felt excused in indulging herself a little.  
Most of her gear was looted from her raids, anyway, her armour thrifted off a master vampire and her supple, tanned gloves prized from a female bandit.  
The fur collar she had crafted herself, a slightly loose one to compensate for the revealing neckline of her armour. She had even taken time to fit one for Stenvar, though his was tighter, better suited to line his new steel plate armour.  
He had refused her offer of a cloak similar to her own, opting for an ornate version made from a cave bear that had attacked Alfarinn's carriage and coupled it with a ring-mail hood he had looted off an assassin.  
She had rewarded him with a second look, noting for the first time that behind the rugged mercenary there were handsome features.  
It had left her feeling confused, but with their arrival at Winterhold shortly after she hadn't found the time to process any of it until much later, alone at the college.  
Now she was horrified to admit to herself that she was looking forward to seeing him again, for reasons that were not entirely professional. Closing the door to the Hall of Attainment that contained her living quarters, she made her way swiftly across the bridge, all but entering the town below at a brisk jogging pace.  
She spotted her target right away; Stenvar was keeping himself busy chopping firewood, and found herself smiling, greeting him with a flippant "Now who's responsible for dulling my axe?"  
He stopped what he was doing, hefting the axe in question across one shoulder as he turned towards her with a wide, wolfish grin. "It was catching dust and rusting from neglect while you were off summoning puffs and sparkles. Couldn't watch abuse like that." He parried lightly, giving her a critical once-over. "Thought I told you to put on some weight before leaving. You'll need the extra reserve."  
Borka grimaced. "Hard to keep any appetite when you have to investigate everything for poison." She grumbled, and Stenvar arched a brow. "That competitive, huh?" He rubbed his chin for a moment, his eyes straying towards the colossal stone hold behind her. "No wonder mages are disliked."  
"Yeah. You ready to leave yet?" She replied, dodging a discussion on the topic and eager to get away for a while.  
"Sure am." He flashed her a smile. "Where would you like to start?"


	2. Yngvild

Chapter 2 - Yngvild

Stenvar's features had hardened into something Borka wasn't certain whether to call disgust or hatred. Glaring at the journal in his hand as if it offended him with it's mere existence he moved his attention over to what was left of the female draugr and ghost that had surprised them earlier, shaking his head as if trying to force something foul from his memory.

"If we find this guy, I want the privilege of ending his miserable existence." He growled, handing Borka the journal. She leafed through it while he scoured the small icy chamber, bile rising in her throat. It was the same author as the previous ones, but now what had been disturbed ramblings had taken on a perverted, abusive streak. "Privilege granted." She confirmed, testily continuing down the icy tunnel, keeping a watchful eye out for undead or traps.  
Moving almost without sound on hardened leather soles she worked as a scout, while Stenvar in his heavier gear kept his distance, ready to provide assistance when needed, but careful not to give away their position.  
Their search for the Helm of Winterhold had led them to Yngvild, once an ancient burial tomb for battle maidens, which they were troubled to discover had been turned into a necromancer's hideout by someone named Arondil, who seemed to use the dead for more than just his army.  
"I prefer bandits to draugr." Stenvar panted, leaning on his sword and trying to catch his breath after holding off three wights. "At least bandits know when to stay dead!"  
Borka nodded, rubbing her shoulder where she had taken a nasty hit from the pommel of an ancient war axe, praising her luck that none of them were severely injured.  
"Looks like we are getting close, though. These tunnels can't go on for much longer; the island is small and we haven't really lost much height, so I doubt they continue below sea level."  
"Any thoughts on how to proceed? I've generally steered well clear of necromancers before." Stenvar admitted, risking a careful look at her shoulder, moving her arm this way and that, expertly testing that she wasn't trying to hide a more critical injury from him.

Too many good people had suffered losses at the battlefield dismissing their injuries as minor, only to find their shield-arm wouldn't rise in time due to fractured bones or heavy bruising.  
She winced a little as he turned and prodded, but he was content to assure himself that she had mostly avoided grave damage.  
Something twisted inside him at the thought of Borka falling prey to a necromancer, especially this one. Even now, weary with the grim task of cleaning out this den, streaks of sweat and dirt running down her face, she was radiant. There seemed to be some unknown power to her, something fiercer than anything he knew how to name that fuelled her onwards.  
She must succeed, for he found that he could not bear to see her fall. Some of his scattered thoughts and emotions must have shown on his face, for she shot him a quizzical look, and he quickly turned away, letting go of her arm.  
"I think," Borka answered his earlier question, "that we might be better off depending on physical damage. Provided we can catch him by surprise, between the two of us we ought to get at least one shot each, maybe even two. Then melee damage to finish him off. I'll keep any... Undead... Off your back. They shouldn't be much trouble soon as he's down."  
"No magic?"  
Borka hesitated for a moment too long. "No." she said at last. "He is probably better skilled at the arcane than me, and I'd rather not risk our chance at surprising him just to practice my few destruction spells. Not... Not with this type."  
She didn't need to add why failure seemed particularly unpleasant this time. They had both read the journals, had both fought the entirely female collection of draugr and ghosts. Stenvar didn't need to ask, the look on her face was easily read: had she known a way to make Arondil suffer without risking defeat herself she wouldn't have let him off with a quick death.

They had managed to sneak into position undetected, splitting in order to better offer each other a clear shot, wordlessly loading their crossbows and passing the signal 'ready' between them.  
Stenvar glared at the altmer in front of him; the bastard had even made himself a throne with a draugr serving him like a king, her decayed, mummified body swaying lightly as she stood to attention by his side. A ghost hovered further back, seemingly not registering much of her surroundings.  
Adjusting his aim Stenvar let the first steel bolt fly, hitting Arondil's lower left side, just underneath the ribs. While he reloaded another bolt buried itself into the mage's right arm, disrupting his spell, and Stenvar quickly asserted himself that Borka had remained undetected before he stepped out from hiding whilst releasing the next shot.  
Howling with pain and fury Arondil ordered his enslaved servants to attack, and Stenvar exchanged his crossbow for his broadsword, charging past the draugr. Dodging her first, unprepared swing, he ducked under her arm, his foot kicking out as he passed, finding her thigh with enough force to shove her off balance on the icy floor. Not waiting to watch he sprinted onwards, using his own momentum to lend his swing more speed than a two-handed weapon usually operated with.

The satisfaction of watching Arondil's eyes widen with disbelief and fear was real. So was the very astute pain as the draugr's blade graced his shoulder and upper back, a deadly swing that was dodged more by chance and the fact his own attack had him pivoting away from her already.  
Reflexively he jerked his blade free from the necromancer's neck and into a new, clumsy attack, but his opponent was already staggering, dropping face forward with a steel bolt trembling from the side of her skull, disrupting a small tuft of dried and dead hair.  
She had been a redhead, once, he noted in bizarre reflection, as the draugr finally came to rest.  
At his feat Arondil gasped for air, a gurgling sound, the blood pumping from the gash that cleaved through his collarbone and quickly spilling onto the ice. Stenvar didn't look at him. The only pain within his power to add to this man's death was, it seemed, indifference.

They didn't spend more time in Yngvild than strictly necessary, retrieving the helm they were originally seeking without any sense of achievement, ending any ghost that still lingered between realms, hopefully sending their souls onwards to Sovngarde free from Arondil's taint.  
The one stop they did make was to carve three shallow graves in the ice for the women that had died in Arondil's "storage room" covering their frozen forms with a thin layer of icy snow, as much as they could manage to carve loose.  
"We'd better send word to the nearby towns." Stenvar grumbled. "Their loved ones ought to get a chance at giving them a proper burial. Something. Anything." He exhaled, a short, hard breath. "This angers me. These things." Arms spread wide he indicated most of the throne room. "I've seen plenty of death. Plenty suffering. I get it. Life is hard, and it sure as hell isn't fair, but why... Why this? Why add to the pile of what is wrong in Skyrim?"  
He looked so distraught, so righteously angered, that Borka half raised a hand to comfort him, but then thought better of it, letting it drop in a gesture if similar helplessness.  
"Let's get out of here."

In unspoken agreement they didn't pause for camp until long after dark, putting as much distance between Yngvild and themselves as possible. When finally they had to rest they found the memories and thoughts unwilling to leave them alone, the comforting warmth and flicker of their campfire not enough to ward off the darker mood that had engulfed them.  
"Do you have family?" The abrupt question broke the silence between them, Borka eyeing the flames as she spoke.  
"Yes." He replied, moving a little, turning his hands in the warmth of the fire. "My da' still thinks he's running the farm, though my brother has taken over the day to day work. Lives there with wife and kids. My sister married a fisherman from Windhelm, though they moved back to my family's farm shortly after. It's easier that way; more people to sow and harvest, even better fishing." His voice trailed off, but then he smiled, offering a tidbit of light: "My niece is possibly the best potato farmer at catching slaughterfish you'll ever see!"  
Borka surprised herself with laughing, it rolled from her chest like pearls spilling from the cord of tension that had tied itself around her neck, the thread snapped with this offering of familiarity and ease. Shaking her head she found she was still smiling, when the gloom shattered it seemed easier to keep it at bay, veiling herself in a smile to protect her thoughts.  
"Wait," she leaned over, reaching for her backpack, not noticing the quick look Stenvar offered her stretched form. "I think we might both need some of this tonight." Rummaging through her belongings her fingers eventually met what they were searching for, closing around a bottle of Alto wine.  
Stenvar gladly accepted a generous mug, drinking deeply from it, enjoying the immediate sense of relief as alcohol and smooth, red forgetfulness promised to numb his senses.  
"How about you?" He heard himself make use of the chance to ask some of his questions without seeming rash. "Family?"  
She looked briefly up at the night sky above, her brow creasing her forehead as she sorted through her answer. "They are scattered. None in Skyrim anymore. Not by blood. We live a nomadic life, my kin. Trading caravans or wayfarers." Rubbing her aching shoulder she turned her eyes to the fire. "I... I recently adopted two young girls. I have... could offer them a place to live, at least. One was begging on the streets in Whiterun, the other selling flowers and sleeping on the streets in Windhelm."  
Stenvar shuddered; he knew Windhelm well enough to imagine the conditions for someone living

like that. For a young girl he guessed there were other terrors than freezing to death as well.  
"A noble thing to do." He said, glancing over at her, offering an encouraging smile. She returned it with one that was far from convinced. "I don't know what to do with this world."  
The statement baffled him. The tone of her voice veiled some other meaning, something he felt he ought to have figured out, but he couldn't quite pinpoint it. There was something, a single piece of this puzzle that might unlock for him the reason why, apparently, she thought this world was her responsibility to fix. He wanted to ask her who she really was. In stead he refilled her mug, hearing himself offer a poor attempt at consolation. "I think nobody does."  
In all honesty it was such a useless response it shouldn't have been rewarded with a reply at all, but Borka leaned her head against his shoulder, keeping her face turned towards the fire, a little away from him, and he sat perfectly still wondering what, if anything, would be the proper response.  
In the end they spent the better part of the night like that, drinking in silence, lending each other comfort in a way they were not too sure how, until eventually Borka raised her head a little, pointing west. "Let's investigate those shipwrecks tomorrow." With that she retreated to her bed roll, burrowing underneath the fur until only her hair could be seen, and Stenvar sighed deeply, pretending to convince himself he wasn't immensely disappointed.  
Behind his back, hiding deep in her sleeping bag, Borka asked herself why in oblivion she had allowed herself to take the liberty of practically snuggling herself up against the nook of his arm, then be stupid enough to leave without even saying good night.  
When at last she heard the faint rustle of footsteps and movement as he too decided to get some sleep, she was glad he could not see her in the dark, for her cheeks burned with embarrassment.  
These things shouldn't be as awkward at thirty-two as they were at fifteen, and still she felt rubbish, embarrassed beyond words at herself. Glancing across the small space that separated them she could just make out the faint outline of his body, his broad shoulders a dark shape against the fur walls of their tent.  
As usual he was facing away from her, a habit of courtesy on her behalf, but now the gesture felt like rejection. She rolled over onto her shoulder, facing away from him, trying to fall asleep.


End file.
